The Teeth of the Tiger - Tom Clancy [62]
"I see your point, Pete," Dominic said. "I'm not leaving yet."
"Neither am I," Brian told his training officer. "I just want to know what the rules are."
Pete didn't tell them they'd be making the rules up as they went along. They'd figure that one out soon enough.
Airports are the same all over the world. Instructed to be polite, they all checked their bags, waited in the correct lounges, smoked their cigarettes in the designated smoking areas, and read the books they'd purchased in the airport kiosks. Or pretended to. Not all of them had the language skills they would have wished. Once at cruising altitude, they ate their airline meals, and most of them took their airline naps. Nearly all of them were seated in the aft rows of their seating sections, and when they stirred, they wondered which of their seatmates they might meet again in a few days or weeks, however long it took to work out the details. Each of them hoped to meet Allah soon, and to garner the rewards that would come for fighting in their Holy Cause. It occurred to the more intellectual of them that even Mohammed, blessings and peace be upon him, was limited in his ability to communicate the nature of Paradise. He'd had to explain it to people with no knowledge of passenger jet aircraft, automobiles, and computers. What, then, was its true nature? It had to be so thoroughly wonderful as to defy description, but even so, a mystery yet to be discovered. And they would discover it. There was a degree of excitement in that thought, a sort of anticipation too sublime to discuss with one's colleagues. A mystery, but an infinitely desirable one. And if others had to meet Allah, too, as a result, well, that also was written in the Great Book of Destiny. For the moment, they all took their naps, sleeping the sleep of the just, the sleep of the Holy Martyrs yet to be. Milk, honey, and virgins.
Sali, Jack found, had some mystery about him. The CIA file on the guy even had the length of his penis appended in the "Nuts and Sluts" section. The British whores said he was grossly average in size but uncommonly vigorous in application-and a fine tipper, which appealed to their commercial sensibilities. But unlike most men, he didn't talk about himself much. Talked mainly about the rain and chill of London, and complimentary things about his companion of the moment, which appealed to her vanity. His occasional gift of a nice handbag-Louis Vuitton in most cases-sat well with his "regulars," two of whom reported to Thames House, the new home of both the British Secret Service and the Security Service. Jack wondered if they were getting paid by both Sali and H. M. Government for services rendered. Probably a good deal for the girls involved, he was sure, though Thames House probably wouldn't spring for shoes and a bag.
"Tony?"
"Yeah, Jack?" Wills looked up from his workstation.
"How do we know if this Sali is a bad guy?"
"We don't for sure. Not until he actually does something, or we intercept a conversation between him and somebody we don't like."
"So, I'm just checking this bird out."
"Correct. You'll be doing a lot of that. Any feel for the guy yet?"
"He's a horny son of a bitch."
"It's hard to be rich and single, in case you haven't noticed, junior."
Jack blinked. Maybe he had that coming. "Okay, but I'll be damned if I pay for it, and he's paying a lot."
"What else?" Wills asked.
"He doesn't talk a hell of a lot."
"What's that tell you?"
Ryan sat back in his swivel chair to think it over. He didn't talk to his girlfriends much, either, at least not about his new job. As soon as you said "financial management," most women tended to doze off in self-defense.